Beds of Roses
by Weaving Moonlight
Summary: In which Draco has trouble comprehending that she's gone.


He knelt in front of the small grey stone, forbidding himself to cry when he saw that there had been red roses left in front of it. He came every day, which meant that someone other than him had been visiting _her_. He supposed that he couldn't be the only one. She had had other friends, better friends, ones who probably mattered more to him. He hadn't even shown up for the funeral. He thought it was better that way. Her friends probably didn't know what she meant to him. So he stayed away, making sure to only come when it was dark and when no one else would see him crying.

He didn't think it was possible, to fall in love. Not for him, anyway. He was the dark one, the one without a heart. Nobody liked him back in school. They all either feared him or hated him. Or maybe both. So he had always thought it was out of his reach, love. Not all because of him, though party. No, it was mostly because he knew that no one would ever love him. How could they? He was a monster. He betrayed his own family, his friends, his school. He wasn't loyal, wasn't kind, wasn't sweet. He wasn't really anything. And he didn't mean anything to anyone.

That is, until she came along. They had been classmates, hating each other more out of default than anything else. It wasn't until fourth year, at the Yule Ball, that he started to see her differently. He started to see her as more than that annoying Gryffindor girl that always hung out with Potter and Weasley. It wasn't until she came out, in that beautiful dress, that he saw her for something else: a beautiful young woman. But still, he couldn't see himself as being loved. And especially not by her. She was the Gryffindor Princess, the unattainable. And even if she was attainable, she most definitely wouldn't go for him.

And he kept thinking that way, until one day they were the last ones cleaning up in the Potions classroom. He guessed that, ever since that fateful day of the Yule Ball, he had always had a slight crush on her. But he never supposed she might feel the same way. That is, until he turned around and there she was. So close, he could almost hear her heartbeat. He supposed, in retrospect, that she had been so close just because she needed to ask him a question. But with her that close, and her scent filling her nose, and his bloodpumping through his veins, he just couldn't stand it any longer. And when he bent down to kiss her, it was so fast, that he was sure she was just standing there because she was surprised, and that any minute now, she would jump away and slap him. But instead, she simply let her body melt into his, like water. She kissed him back with such an intensity that he thought he would burst. And all he could think of was his hand in her curls and her hand on his chest and their lips slanting against each other's so hard he thought he might die.

They kept it secret, of course. Her friends would hex him, and his friends would probably do the same. They both figured that they were probably better off not telling anybody. So he started dating Pansy, and she started pining after Ron. Or so they all thought. Pansy knew he didn't love her, and she knew he loved _her._ But she kept quiet for his sake. And because she liked having him, the famous Draco Malfoy, as her boyfriend. And when Hermione cried alone, they all figured it was because Ron was dating Lavender. None of them would ever guess the truth. That they could never truly be together, because of all the stereotypes and the fact that he had to marry a pureblood.

During the war sometimes, she would sneak away from Harry and Ron and all the troubles and sadness in the tent. She would apparate to Malfoy Manor, where she knew he was, and they would spend a few hours together, when she was supposed to be getting food or something of the like. He knew if they ever got caught, it would be the end of them, the end of her life, probably. SO, to save her, he told her he didn't love her anymore. That she was naïve for thinking he ever could love a dirty little mudblood like her. And he thought that she would be safe.

But he could never get her out of his mind. He couldn't get away from the stolen nights, stolen kisses. He couldn't leave the memory of her flushed face and swollen lips, smirking at him as he pulled down her skirt, slowly, and feasted upon her. He couldn't get the sound of her cries as they made love out of his thoughts, couldn't get the feel of her mouth around him to leave.

Then, she showed up at his house. Not because she wanted to see him, but because she had been captured. He had to stand by and watch as she was tortured with the Cruciatus curse over and over, watch as she screamed in agony. He couldn't do anything as Bellatrix carved the word _mudblood_ into her skin, so deep that it would leave a scar. It was then he decided that she was definitely better off without him. His past, his family, _he_ was so fucked up and he couldn't, wouldn't wish the curse of himself on anybody.

He read about her death in the Prophet, read about how she, the tragic war heroine, had sacrificed her very life so that Potter could live and kill the Dark Lord. He read about her wonderful life, about the fact that she was top witch in the school, and read the heartbreaking stories from her friends. Nowhere, did it mention Draco Malfoy.

He guessed that was for the better. If he was never mentioned, no one would ever suspect that they were in love. Or used to be, at least. He satisfied himself by going to her house, looking at all the pictures of her from when she was younger, where she was happy. He looked through her room, her bags. He found her perfume and pocketed it, so that he could always remember her smell and how it used to assault him. And there, hidden by a spell they had created together, he found a letter.

_Dear Draco,_ it read,

_My love. If you're reading this, then it must mean that I'm dead. I'm sorry. I know you did what you did to protect me. I would've done the same, in your position. Just know that everything I did was for you. I love you, still. And, while I know you love me, you probably don't believe that you will ever love again. I'm here to tell you that you will. You must. You are a good person, Draco, too good a person to spend the rest of your life mourning me. I'm not naïve enough to think that you'll just move on immediately. Nobody could. But I do hope that there is still enough love in your heart for someone else. I don't want you to be sad the rest of your life. Live a good one, Draco. Don't waste it worrying what others will think._

_Forever yours,_

_Hermione_

She loved him. She still loved him, and that was all the mattered. Even after all that he put her through, she never gave up. Maybe she should have. And he was sorry, so sorry that he wouldn't be able to fulfill her last wish. He would never be able to love someone else. He knew it would be unfair of him, to ask his future lover to not mind that he would always be thinking of her, no matter what. It would be unfair to ask someone else to put up with him, all his faults, when he knew he could never love another soul as much as he loved her.

Her friends all know, they all know that he visits her grave every night. They pretend to not, because they know he wouldn't want them knowing. They all suppose he had something with her. They see the love in his eyes, when he talks to her gravestone. They see the tears well up when he recounts a fond memory. They see him break down on the anniversary of her death, crying too hard to even notice anything else. They see that, after her death, he has become a shell. Not eating, except when necessary because he knows she wouldn't want him to do this to himself. He knows he shouldn't, but he can't help it. It's hard to live without the love of your life.

And when he succumbs to the darkness on the day of her death, twelve years later, they all smile. Not out of maliciousness or spite, but because they know he is finally happy with Hermione, and she has been reunited with him.


End file.
